


How To Drain Your Flagon

by beer_good



Category: Angel: the Series, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Ficathon Walks Into A Bar Challenge, Crossover, Gen, Milk, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beer_good/pseuds/beer_good
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rogue demon hunter walks into a bar and meets... Khal Drogo!</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Drain Your Flagon

**Title:** How To Drain Your Flagon  
 **Author:** Beer Good  
 **Prompt:** Wesley Wyndam-Pryce meets Khal Drogo  
 **Fandoms:** Angel/Game of Thrones (early season 1 of both series)  
 **Word count:** ~1100  
 **Rating/Contents:** PG13  
 **Warnings:** No warnings needed

**How To Drain Your Flagon**

In retrospect, there was something off about this biker bar that he should have noticed before going in. Maybe it was the unpaved road leading up to it. Maybe it was the barbeque smoke rising from a large opening in the roof. Or maybe it was that instead of motorcycles, there was a group of rather impressive-looking horses standing outside. But Wesley had been in America long enough to not let their customs bother him, at least not noticeably, and having spent the whole day astride a motorcycle with a long way to go before he reached LA he desperately needed to, as they said, 'wet his whistle'. Just before pulling over, he had felt himself almost blacking out for a second - almost as if he had driven through some sort of portal - so he clearly needed to rest a while.

Also, the leather trousers were chafing him.

In further retrospect, he might have turned and left as soon as he walked in the door and realised that the only other guests in the rustic-looking diner were a group of half-naked, muscular men seated around a firepit in the middle, over which slowly turned a spit with an entire sheep on it. While he'd seen some odd things over the last few weeks of travelling all over the southern parts of the USA, this was new. But he didn't want to pass judgment, and besides, a rogue demon hunter doesn't run, even from a dozen bearded men... who, he just realised, were armed with swords and axes. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He hung his motorcycle helmet over his arm and walked over to the counter with as much confidence as he could muster, ignoring their stares.

The fact that the barkeep didn't even raise an eyebrow when he ordered a tall glass of milk was encouraging; clearly he was giving off the right kind of 'badass vibe'. He took his glass - or rather pitcher - and walked over towards a free table in the corner, taking a casual sip of his milk as he passed the group of men.

Only to discover that what he'd been served wasn't the cold, fresh, pasteurised milk he expected, but the traditional warrior's drink of warm, fermented, and very potent (not to mention disgusting) mare's milk. Before he could think to himself, _Wesley, whatever you do, don't choke, cough, and spill the entire pitcher over the largest and beardiest of the men,_ he choked, coughed, and spilled the entire pitcher over the largest and beardiest of the men.

A deadly hush fell over the place as the huge man pushed his chair back, slowly rose to his feet and turned to face Wesley (or, to be more precise, to face a spot a good foot over Wesley's head). Rancid milk dripped off his long ponytail and ran over his heavily tattooed torso as he fixed his eyes on the Englishman and spoke.

"I am Drogo, son of Bharbo, Khal of the Dothraki," he boomed (not in English, of course, but by an extraordinary coincidence, Dothraki is very similar to certain demonic languages that Wesley spoke almost fluently). "I am on my way to a meeting with the rightful king of Westeros, who has promised me his sister's hand in marriage. Whose blood shall I tell them I'm covered in?"

"Wesley, um, son of, er, Roger... I mean..." Wesley quickly racked his brain for an acceptable code of conduct in this type of situation. "Sir, I apologise profusely and sincerely for my clumsiness. I shall of course be happy to reimburse you for the cost of cleaning your, er, leather armour. However, should you wish to pursue a more violent solution, I feel it only fair to warn you that I am a former member of the Watcher's Council, and as such trained to kill with my bare hands if need be."

Drogo looked him in the eyes with a fearsome scowl... then turned to his men and laughed. "I like this one!" He turned back to Wesley. "Tell you what, little man. I will give you the first punch. If you can hit me, maybe we'll let you go in exchange for your armour," he nodded at Wesley's riding suit, "rather than sell you to the first slavers we meet." He shifted into a battle stance, putting his hands up in the international (and interdimensional) sign for 'bring it'.

Wesley quickly glanced at the door, which was barred by a very large warrior with a very large axe. Nothing else for it, then. He winced, took a deep breath, and hauled back to punch Drogo in the face. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten about the helmet hanging from his arm. The helmet caught on the Khal's chair and Wesley lost his balance, stumbled past his opponent, and only managed to avoid falling into the firepit by grabbing hold of the end of the spit, which pivoted into the air (sheep and all), striking Drogo on the back of the head and knocking him out cold.

"Oh dear. I mean..." Wesley picked himself up, stood over Drogo and straightened his back, mentally fixing the tie he would have worn if the riding suit wasn't so hot. "I trust that will be a lesson to you, to never tangle with... uh, with..." He looked up and realised that the Khal's men had all got up and now stood in a circle around him and the fallen chief, their weapons looking particularly sharp.

Gulp.

For a few seconds, the dozen warriors and the former watcher stared at each other. Then one of the Dothraki pulled out a large knife, and ignoring Wesley's whimper he bent down, cut off Drogo's ponytail and knelt before Wesley, offering it to him. "All hail Khal Wesley-um, son of Er—Roger."

"ALL HAIL KHAL WESLEY-UM, SON OF ER—ROGER," the rest of the men echoed, kneeling before Wesley.

Keeping their weapons in mind, it seemed impolite to refuse.

 

* * *

And so it was that the erstwhile watcher and rogue demon hunter Wesley Wyndam-Pryce found himself riding a mighty horse at the head of a horde of Dothraki warriors, heading for the city of Pentos to meet with, and apparently wed, a princess of Westeros. Wherever that may be. He considered his options, which seemed few. The last time he was in this sort of pickle, it took a blonde teenage girl with a special destiny to get him out of it, and what were the chances of running into another one of those?

But maybe they would at least have some more comfortable trousers for him.


End file.
